Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

he was something of a favourite (“There’s no harm in Mr. Kipps,” she used to say) seemed to like him if anything better for having broken the rules and gave him a piece of dry toast and a good hot cup of tea.

“I suppose the G. V.⁠—” began Kipps.

“He knows,” said the housekeeper.

He went down to shop a little before time, and presently Booch summoned him to the presence.

He emerged from the private office after an interval of ten minutes.

The junior clerk scrutinised his visage. Buggins put the frank question.

Kipps answered with one word.

“Swapped!” said Kipps.

Kipps leant against the fixtures with his hands in his pockets and talked to the two apprentices under him.

“I don’t care if I am swapped,” said Kipps. “I been sick of Teddy and his System some time. I was a good mind to chuck it when my time was up. Wish I ’ad now.”

Afterwards Pierce came round and Kipps repeated this.

“What’s it for?” said Pierce. “That row about the window tickets?”

“No fear!” said Kipps and sought to convey a perspective of splendid depravity. “I wasn’t in las’ night,” he said and made even Pierce, “man about town” Pierce, open his eyes.

“Why! where did you get to?” asked Pierce.

He conveyed that he had been “fair round the town.” “With a Nactor chap, I know.”

“One can’t always be living like a curit,” he said.

“No fear,” said Pierce, trying to play up to him.

But Kipps had the top place in that conversation.

“My Lor’!” said Kipps, when Pierce had gone, “but wasn’t my mouth and ’ed bad this morning before I ’ad a pick-me-up!”

“Whad jer ’ave?”

“Anchovy on ’ot buttered toast. It’s the very best pick-me-up there is. You trust me, Rodgers. I never take no other and I don’t advise you to. See?”

And when pressed for further particulars, he said again he had been “fair all round the town, with a Nactor chap” he knew. They asked curiously all he had done and he said, “Well, what do you think?” And when they pressed for still further details he said there were things little boys ought not to know and laughed darkly and found them some huckaback to roll.

And in this manner for a space did Kipps fend off the contemplation of the “key of the street” that Shalford had presented him.

This sort of thing was all very well when junior apprentices were about, but when Kipps was alone with himself it served him not at all. He was uncomfortable inside and his skin was uncomfortable, and Head and Mouth palliated perhaps, but certainly not cured, were still with him. He felt, to tell the truth, nasty and dirty and extremely disgusted with himself. To work was dreadful and to stand still and think still more dreadful. His patched knee reproached him. These were the second best of his three pairs of trousers, and they had cost him thirteen and sixpence. Practically ruined they were. His dusting pair was unfit for shop and he would have to degrade his best. When he was under inspection he affected the slouch of a desperado, but directly he found himself alone, this passed insensibly into the droop.

The financial aspect of things grew large before him. His whole capital in the world was the sum of five pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank and four and sixpence cash. Besides there would be two months’ screw. His little tin box upstairs was no longer big enough for his belongings; he would have to buy another, let alone that it was not calculated to make a good impression in a new “crib.” Then there would be paper and stamps needed in some abundance for answering advertisements and railway fares when he went “crib hunting.” He would have to write letters, and he never wrote letters. There was spelling for example to consider. Probably if nothing turned up before his month was up he would have to go home to his Uncle and Aunt.

How would they take it?⁠ ⁠…

For the present at any rate he resolved not to write to them.

Such disagreeable things as this it was that lurked below the fair surface of Kipps’ assertion, “I’ve been wanting a chance. If ’e ’adn’t swapped me, I should very likely ’ave swapped ’im.”

In the perplexed privacies of his own mind he could not understand how everything had happened. He had been the Victim of Fate, or at least of one as inexorable⁠—Chitterlow. He tried to recall the successive steps that had culminated so disastrously. They were difficult to recall.⁠ ⁠…

Buggins that night abounded in counsel and reminiscence.

“Curious thing,” said Buggins, “but every time I’ve had the swap I’ve never believed I should get another Crib⁠—never. But I have,” said Buggins. “Always. So don’t lose heart, whatever you do.⁠ ⁠…

“Whatever you do,” said Buggins, “keep hold of your collars and cuffs⁠—shirts if you can, but collars anyhow. Spout them last. And anyhow, it’s summer!⁠—you won’t want your coat.⁠ ⁠… You got a good umbrella.⁠ ⁠…

“You’ll no more get a shop from New Romney, than⁠—anything. Go straight up to London, get the cheapest room you can find⁠—and hang out. Don’t eat too much. Many a chap’s put his prospects in his stomach. Get a cup o’ coffee and a slice⁠—egg if you like⁠—but remember you got to turn up at the Warehouse tidy. The best places now, I believe, are the old cabmen’s eating houses. Keep your watch and chain as long as you can.⁠ ⁠…

“There’s lots of shops going,” said Buggins. “Lots!”

And added reflectively, “But not this time of year perhaps.”

He began to recall his own researches. “ ’Stonishing lot of chaps you see,” he said. “All sorts. Look like Dukes some of ’em. High hat. Patent boots. Frock coat. All there. All right for a West End crib. Others⁠—Lord! It’s a caution, Kipps. Boots been inked in some reading rooms⁠—I used to write in a Reading Room in Fleet Street, regular penny club⁠—hat been wetted, collar frayed, tail coat buttoned up, black chest-plaster tie⁠—spread out. Shirt, you know, gone⁠—” Buggins pointed upward